The Threat
by sherlockedserb
Summary: "Looking down at her hands, Claire could feel the blood. Warm and wet." Because life happens. Sherlock/OC drama :*
1. Introductions?

**Here's a little story I've been working on for a while that I really think you true Sherlockian's will enjoy(:**

So on that note:  
**Forewarned is fair warned so I just want to tell you right now that this is a darker tale. A lot of things in the world are tragic. I'm not saying this is a sob story. It's not like you're not going to be crying into your "I Believe In Sherlock Holmes" comforter.** (I don't have one of those. I have the poster) **What I'm trying to say is that tragic things can be beautiful. Look at Harry Potter. Depressing storyline, but it's inspiring and beautiful and epic and perfect. BTW, I'm _not_ comparing my little fanfic here to that epic series on any level I'm JUST SAYING - Anyway, if it's any consolation, I believe in the old ****adage "Everything is okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end." But you know, sometimes life happens so...ENJOY!**

**...**

"A consulting detective? That isn't even a real thing." May tripped off the curb.

"Yes." Claire said dismissively, checking the time on her phone. "But the police are doing nothing, and I'm not just going to give up."

There was silence as the two women made their way down Baker street, checking addresses as they went.

"Besides," She said, stopping outside a green door, the 221B address shone golden in the afternoon sun. "He's supposed to be a genius or something."

"Did the internet tell you that?" May smirked. Claire threw her a scathing look. "But listen," the smile had slipped from her face. "Don't get your hopes up..."

Claire's eyes flashed darkly but it was just then that the door swung inward.

"Goodafternoon!" An older woman answered the door. "Looking for Sherlock Holmes, I expect?"

"Yes ma'am." Claire said politely.

"Well come in, come in! I'm Mrs. Hudson." She closed the door behind them. "It is such a lovely day.. but I think I heard the telly say there's to be a storm tonight."

They had reached the second story. Mrs. Hudson ushered them into a cozy living room.

"Afternoon." A blonde man with a kind face extended his hand. "I'm John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes." He gestured to a tall man framed in the light of the window. He was tall, pale and had a mess of curly hair atop his head. In an unexpected way, Claire noted, he was attractive.

"Hello. I'm Claire Vitarelli and this is my friend May Bluhmann." May shook Watson's hand, a strand of her pale hair falling from her severe ponytail, but Sherlock turned away and addressed them almost absently.

"Interesting."

"What is?" Claire asked nonplussed by his lack of formality.

She wore a light, red satin dress and a black cardigan. Claire was of average hight, slender, and her dark-caramel brown hair fell just above her shoulders. Her skin was olive and her bangs just touched the top of her neat, dark eyebrows.

Her most extraordinary feature, however, was her eyes. They were large and shone out of her face enigmatically. The iris's were golden brown with flecks of amber, and the edge of the iris was a dark brown circle that contrasted severely with the whites of her eyes.

"Two American's.. both of you with dual ethnic names. Typical of your country. May Bluhmann, german, scientist given the acid stains on your jeans and calloused hands. Claire is french for your mother, your father was italian obviously. Given the emphasis you gave when pronouncing your name, you have no relationship with your mother although she is living. The cut of your hair and the way you carry yourself indicates that you are in business. So what is it?"

He turned to them and he seemed excited by his own cleverness.

"What brings you to London and subsequently our flat? Scandal? Blackmail?" There was a pause and May inhaled sharply, looking to her friend.

"Impressive." Claire offered offhandedly, sizing him up. "You were almost, nearly _completely_ correct." Mr. Holme's eyebrow twitched at her check on his ego.

"What did I miss?"

"You missed the fact that nothing brought me to London, I live here. To be fair, May is just visiting from Switzerland but, more important, my cause for seeking your services has nothing to do with my career, Mr. Holmes."

She smiled charmingly, but her eyes shone with pleasure.

Claire enjoyed being right more than anything else.

"Ms. Vitarelli," Watson interjected before Sherlock could reply. "what _does_ bring you here today?"

Any amusement was wiped instantly from Claire's face.

"My cousin came to visit me three weeks ago. She was here four days and then she disappeared."

"What are the facts?" Sherlock asked, sitting down. Watson gestured for the two women to sit down as well.

"I'd lent her my car, but it was parked in the garage when I got home from work. That was a wednesday; we had planned to go out for dinner at Hereford Road. The door was locked when I got home but the strange thing is, her phone lay smashed on my kitchen counter next to a plate of fresh-baked cookies."

"What kind?"

"What kind of what?"

"Cookies. What kind of cookies?" Sherlock seemed annoyed.

"Peanut butter oatmeal." she said curtly.

"Your favorite, I presume?" Claire gazed at him, her expression guarded.

"Yes."

"Well it's obvious isn't it?" He looked at Watson who seemed to be at a loss.

"How?" Claire asked, and her desperation was made clear to everyone in the room for the first time. Sherlock seemed unaffected.

"The cookies were a message, a note. Her last note. She smashed her phone. Today, our phones are essentially our lives. It was a symbolic act. Poetic really..."

"No." Claire said firmly. "She -"

"An American on holiday in London. A spur of the moment visit, I'm sure it seemed to you. But with the premise of a vacation, she had had her fond final farewells with loved ones back home. You two were very close. She made a point of staying with you four days, and I'm sure she seemed very happy. This was no doubt a ruse. I expect no one knew how depressed she actually was. But -"

"No." Claire repeated viciously.

"Yes. Your cousin killed herself. It's been three weeks, and I'm sure the police came to the same conclusion. She probably jumped off a bridge into the Thames. The body will more than likely turn up eventually."

Claire sat staring at the detective who had just effectively torn apart any hope she had left.

John Watson was looking at his friend in disbelief. May actually looked afraid.

"I know my cousin -"

"Knew. You knew your cousin. She's dead now. At this point Miss. Vitarelli, you're wasting not only my time, but yours as well."

Claire shot to her feet.

"Damn you." She said, and the intensity of her eyes shocked even the detached detective. She swept out of the room.

"That was cruel, Mr. Holmes." May said despairingly.

"It was the truth."

"Maybe." Watson said. "But-"

"Listen," May said quickly, standing. "Here's her number. Claire has a tendency to take things to the extreme and you've offended her. Apologize. Please. Really."

"What do you -"

"There was this inspector Wilson," May rushed to say as she edged toward the door. "He told her that the definite label was suicide. Claire argued, but he sealed the case. Now he's a constable in Stapleford."

"Why?" Watson asked, taking the card May offered.

"Claire does things like that. It seems like a terrible thing, and she's really a wonderful person... but she does not take insults well."

"Well, Sherlock definitely offended her.. But how does she get a City of London inspector reassigned to such a poor position?"

May shook her head.

"I don't know." she said honestly, and walked quickly out of the room.

"That was odd." John muttered. Then turning he frowned. "That was terrible of you Sherlock."

"I'm not calling her."

"I know." John sighed, placing the card on the mantle. He fell into his chair and looked at his friend.

"So her cousin killed herself."

"Definitely." Sherlock said. "Boring." Watson frowned even more at this but knew a lecture would have no effect.

"Alright. But.. well I think you were just threatened."

"Technically, we were warned of a potential threat."

"Still... what kind of a businesswoman can have the police reassigned?"

"I have no idea."

**...**

**Any input you have (positive or otherwise) is most appreciated. Feedback is always *quality motivation.**


	2. Beginnings

"My, my Sherlock. For a smart man you can be incredibly dense." Mycroft sat across from his brother, smirking.

"How?" Sherlock asked, calmly setting his cup in the saucer.

"You should watch what you say, especially to clients. You never know who you'll set after you."

"I suppose you mean Claire Vitarelli."

It wasn't a question. It had been a week since she had visited him and in the back of his mind he knew that May had meant what she said. Also, he had looked into poor Mr. Wilson who had, in fact, been sent far far away from London after he had crossed paths with Claire.

"Yes. Have you figured out who she is?"

"I haven't given her a single thought since she left my flat."

This of course was a lie.

She wasn't on google. No facebook or twitter pages, no phone listings anywhere. It seemed improbable that a business person could function off the grid...

But as he looked at the smirk on Mycroft's face, he realized that she must have enough power to thrive off the grid.

"Who is she?" He finally demanded.

"Just as the Director of the CIA is not the most powerful person in the CIA, Claire Vitarelli wields the power of her corporation, though she is not CEO."

"What does she do then? What corporation?" Mycroft leaned back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying his brother's bewilderment.

"Most things. She had both an MBA and JD by age 23, and after an internship on Wall Street she moved here. She's twenty six now and well..." He trailed off.

"What?" Sherlock growled, impatient. Mycroft was genuinely lost in thought.

"Her family, her uncles in particular, are powerful businessmen in the states. Her father has extensive military connections with high ranking officials, as well as the CIA. Obviously their hands are in the government on multiple levels and Claire, it seems, has been extremely lucky."

"It seems she had an incredible advantage."

"Well she was never rich growing up, but she was extremely intelligent and clever of course, so that was and is her greatest weapon. Her personality works to her advantage as well. Or did you notice?" Mycroft was smirking again.

"I noticed she had a temper. Your smile leads me to the conclusion that you know her personally."

"Quite right. But it's only recently. I had heard of her of course, but after her meeting with you she came to see me directly."

"Really?" Sherlock managed to sound unimpressed, but he couldn't figure out how an american had managed to walk right into one of the highest offices of British government.

"Yes. She wanted to know all about you, so I told her."

"Does she even have her worker's visa?" Mycroft let out a laugh.

"She has dual citizenship." Sherlock blinked.

"What else?"

"It's a puzzle isn't it? We've done our homework and she is entirely legitimate. Her force of will is incredible and I believe that is how she manages... the things she does."

"This woman seems utterly impossible." Sherlock's annoyance was like music to Mycroft.

"Yes.. she has fully invested in the American dream and has carried her spirit to our small island."

"Quite."

"She does as she pleases and people allow it, because technically she has done nothing wrong. She crosses a lot of lines to get what she wants but as I said before, she's clever."

"So is Moriarty."

"Oh please, Sherlock. I know the woman!"

"That proves nothing. The way you're carrying on, it seems she has you on a leash." Mycroft frowned and coughed.

"Ridiculous. Out of the public eye she is an extremely well liked person in the highest of circles."

"That would give her access to people with secrets, and with the power you hint at it seems to me you are entertaining a dangerous personality in your "circles"." Mycroft only smiled.

"She's done nothing. She's powerful and well liked. That's it. I only came to tea to tell you that, once again, you have made a powerful and potentially dangerous enemy... The only difference this time is, she's no villain."

"As far as you know."

"No." Mycroft said standing, smiling even wider as Sherlock frowned. "No. I do know. And, I will be frank Sherlock, I do enjoy this. It should prove interesting to see how things between the two of you develop."

As Mycroft stalked out of the room he nodded to John, who had taken no part in the brother's conversation.

There was a long silence after his departure.

"What do you think?" Watson asked curiously.

"I think Mycroft's a bloody idiot." Sherlock said reaching for his gun and eyeing the wall maliciously.

...

Claire sat in her corner office and looked out at the city sprawling beneath her.

"Eddie." She said into the intercom, and the polished oak door opened. Her assistant hurried to her desk.

"Yes Miss. Vitarelli?" Claire threw the man an exasperated look.

"I don't call you Mr. Parks, and I don't call you Edward. You must call me Claire or we'll never be friends Eddie." The man smiled.

"Alright, Claire." He had been her assistant two days. The last woman had quit in a panic after the disappearance of Claire's cousin, unable to handle the pressure of dealing with an inconsolable and highly demanding boss.

"Good. Now I need the figures out of Boston immediately and see if you can get me that ship's number, I want to speak with the captain. Denmark is here tonight, get me all their information. And for goodness sake, send a note to Karl explaining no, for the last time, I won't take tinted windows and besides, who's looking for me?"

"Right. Anything else?"

"Send my father those keys and get Berlin on the phone for me, would you? Also, black coffee please." Eddie nodded and left quickly.

Claire leaned back in her desk and smiled, enjoying the rush of power.

She thoroughly appreciated her competency, and as Eddie rang Berlin, Claire opened the file she had on Sherlock Holmes and eyed its contents once more. She had planned to take the offense, but having learned more about the man who had been so cold to her in regard to her cousin's suicide (it had been a suicide) Claire knew that she would eventually find him in _her_ office.

Eddie brought the coffee as she spoke to her partners, and as she sipped the bitter drink she let her thoughts drift to the detective. Her partners said nothing of her distant manner.


	3. A Momentary Lapse

**Hi again!**

**This is where the story begins to take a dark turn. Enjoy...  
****Every cloud has a silver lining, but we might as well dance in the rain while it's coming down.  
****A****nd that's not me trying to be corny. It's a valuable life philosophy. ****Live it up!  
Oh! &reviews are like frozen grapes or sun ripened tomatoes... I love them ;)**

**...**

Claire set her glass down and looked at the clock.

_5 am._

She bit her lip, extremely on edge. Claire hadn't slept in two weeks. Not properly anyway.

The first few days it had taken her ages to fall asleep. It only got worse, and soon she was sleeping one or two hours a night at most.  
Tonight she hadn't slept a single second, and wine wasn't helping.

She paced up and down her expansive living room, waves of panic coursing through her.

"_Why?!" _She finally called to the empty apartment. There was no answer, not that she'd expected one. Emptying the rest of her wine oneto the stained wood floor she sighed.

Swearing softly she picked up her cell.

"Eddie, yes. Cancel my day. Yes. Everything."

She sunk to the floor. Glancing over to the kitchen she gazed at the smashed phone still on the counter.

Claire hadn't cried until now. Tears flowed down her cheeks and she clutched her face.  
All feelings of anger and vengeance were gone. Anger, mainly, was what drove her to accomplish the things that she did. Claire felt immensely weak.

...

The two had been doing research for days. Claire Vitarelli's records from America were spotless, and the few bits of information they could find in Britain were clean too, with one possible exception which Sherlock narrowed his tunnel vision on.

"Gunther Weapon's bombs have exploded in cities all over the world," he was saying. "With Claire's company's hands in energy, transportation and now weapons, it seems we might be dealing with a global, terrorist backing corporation."

"A lot of companies do business with weapon companies that have lost merchandise to terrorists."

"Given the large quantity of missing shipments, and the tens of thousands of dead civilians, evidence would indicate that Gunther is directly involved."

"Then why are they still allowed to operate?"

"No one has connected the dots. Their CFO's father died during a strike in Guantanamo Bay, sixty four percent of their employees are from the middle east, and six tons of explosives have gone "missing" during shipping in the last two years. How has our government not seen through this?"

John shrugged and wiped the toast crumbs from his sweater.

"So what are you going to do?" Sherlock stood up.

"Before I take this to Mycroft, I want to hear what our would-be client has to say."

"Alright, her office is across town should we take the tube?"

"We're going to her apartment, it's quite near and she doesn't go into work until 7."

"It's 6:30!"

"She lives a mile away, let's go."

It wasn't long and they were standing outside an impressive marble building. They entered the extravagant lobby and quickly caught an elevator to the 27th floor. The hall was lit with the warm glow of a gaslight and the carpet was a rich creme colour.

Sherlock hit the knocker three times in rapid succession, and the two waited quietly outside the large wooden door. Soon, there was a sliding sound and a click and the door swung inward.

Claire stood before them in an overlarge sleep shirt. Her lack of makeup indicated that she had just woken up, but the way her eyes stared at them out of her listless face alarmed both men.

"I'm so sorry Miss -" Watson began.

"No." Claire interrupted in a dull voice. "It's alright, I wasn't really sleeping. Call me Claire, and do come in."

She turned and walked across the foyer to her living room unsteadily. Watson shut the door behind them and cast Sherlock a confused look, but the consulting detective did not share his concern. He followed Claire and sat when she gestured toward two large armchairs.

"Well?" She asked without interest .

"Well indeed Miss. Vitarelli." Sherlock crooned, always one for theatrics.

"If you don't call me Claire I won't speak to you."

"Actually, Claire, I'm speaking to you." Her eyebrow rose slightly at this. "We know about your corporation's association with Gunther Weapons, and we know that they are direct suppliers to terrorist cells the world over. In light of this -"

"Mr. Holmes." She said without emotion. "My company isn't the only company doing business with-"

"No, but you knew what they were doing. Of the twelve freight lost, ten of them belonged to your company." There was an extremely long pause.

"My, you are stupid." Claire finally said, standing. She said this, too, without any interest, as though simply stating a common fact.

"Me?"

"Yes," Claire said walking away from them. "One moment, please." She disappeared down a long hallway.

"What do you think she means?" John asked quietly. "And why is she acting like that?"

"We'll see." Sherlock said, unwilling to state any definite opinion. They waited about five minutes.

Claire returned wearing a blue cable-knit sweater. Her hair was brushed and she had put on mascara.

"Now, you were saying?'' Sherlock inquired.

"Yes, I was saying that you are a fool." She sunk down into a large armchair.

"Why?"

Claire surveyed him a moment.

"All I do is business, and some law to be fair. I had never given Gunther Weapons any real thought but, hearing your accusation, I think you're right. You are absolutely right."

There was a drawn out silence.

"So," Sherlock managed. "why-"

"You're a fool for bringing this to my attention. Do you know who I am, anyway?"

"We have a general idea."

"Let's say you have no idea, but do allow me to alleviate your ignorance."

Her words were threatening but her voice was entirely dismissive, and her eyes betrayed nothing. Watson felt a thrill of alarm run up his neck, but he didn't know why.

"I am what is sometimes labeled a "fixer", but my position is much more secure. There's a sign outside my office that says "In house counsel; Executive", so I put that on my tax forms. I have a direct relationship with all of my corporations most powerful partners, and I ensure all people and business are run smoothly. I think you might have guessed this, Mr. Holmes, though you had nothing to confirm your theory until now. Anyway, my question is why would you bring this to my attention? Either I knew, or I didn't know - either way what did you expect would happen after you accused me that the third richest company we're in league with is a front for terrorism?"

Watson was shocked.

"So you really didn't know, but we've told you... And now?"

"Come now, Mr. Watson. Your friend knows exactly what I'm saying." John looked at Sherlock whose face was grim.

"I do. Your position at your corporation is one that is in existence in order to ensure the safety of your business dealings without fail. We've directly threatened your corporation's legitimacy."

"Yes. And while I had no knowledge of terrorist connections, I'm sure many of my colleagues did. Someone does murder, has an affair, runs over a little kid, starts doing heroin, steals from their partners - they tell me. They tell me because I fix their problems, I make their problems go away and I keep their people, everyone, assured. Terrorism is something entirely different."

"Quite. They wouldn't tell you until they had to, because the damage control would be immense and-"

"I would have objected. Now that I'm confronted with it directly, you've left me no option. Aggression is key in this industry. They'd have you killed, and we'd proceed to dissolve our relationship with Gunther over the next two years until it's nonexistent. In the meantime I'd have to contain the situation including, I am sure, dealing with not only terrorists but Mrs. Hudson as well. It's dirty work that I've never had to do before... It's almost funny, had you brought this to my attention any other day I would not have been so forthcoming with you."

"Yes, you would have lied expertly and I expect we never would have made it home."

"I don't pull the trigger Mr. Holmes, I simply load the gun." She said absently, checking the time on her phone.

The two friends glanced at each other.

"Why didn't you go into work today, Claire?" Watson asked gently. Her eyes met his and they were empty.

"I'm quite ill." She stood. "Are you thirsty? I'll get us water with cucumber."

She walked into the kitchen and they heard the tinking of glasses.

"I don't understand." John whispered urgently. Sherlock's eyes were darting back and forth as he thought.

"Oh.. I do." He managed before their hostess returned with drinks.

"I'm sure you do." Claire said, glancing at John. "I'm not deaf." She went back to her chair.

"Claire has, this very morning I believe, come to terms with the true circumstances of her cousin's death; a truth she had been denying vehemently. It appears that she has not been sleeping and, I think, she now feels only an overwhelmins disillusionment -"

"Yes." Claire cut him off brusquely, looking away with what was apparently a pained expression. "Everything, yes."

There was silence.

"Well, should we go then or - no, wait actually. Are you going to have us killed?" John demanded.

"No." She said, flippant and annoyed.

"She won't." Sherlock said, smiling. "She's never had anyone killed before, but I'm sure she would not have had a problem ending our lives before today. This morning, wasn't it? You came to terms with everything this morning, didn't you Claire?"

She didn't move.

"Right." Sherlock stood, a wide smile spreading over his face. "Now, we go to Mycroft -"

"Any threat you perceived was hypothetical." She said quietly. "I clean up the crimes of others, I don't commit any."

"I believe the definition is "accessory"; accomplice." Her eyes flicked to his.

"Not even you, Mr. Holmes, could find evidence of any illegal activity within my corporation - or our partner's for that matter."

"I don't think-"

"This is what's going to happen. I'm the most trusted person in the business world, so go ahead to Mycroft. No one will expect I had any knowledge of what you had discovered... But I tell you now, if my name is so much as mentioned in relation to this I'll be ruined. And when I say ruined I mean it."

"They'd chop you to pieces." His triumphant expression gave Claire cause to stand.

"You think?" it was a challenge.

"No, I don't actually. You have to many political and military allies, and you can always return to the States with your tail between you legs."

Her eyes shone with rage, and for the first time since they had arrived she seemed to be an animated human being.

"Try it." she said, and the thrill returned to John's neck.

"No." Sherlock smiled. "No, not today. Any other inside secrets you care to share? Names, for instance.." The threat incensed Claire, and she could slap herself for her momentary lapse of indifference before.

"Disillusioned, indeed. Carlson, Engine and Lowings come to mind. Again, I knew nothing of terrorism until today but they're my best guess." Sherlock nodded, retying his scarf.

"How does it feel, Claire? Having to scramble to clean up your own mess?"

At these words she had to clench her fists. Claire had never before experienced the rage boiling beneath her skin as she flushed a deep red.

"My my," Sherlock said, turning away. "You'd best keep that temper in check."

He turned at the door.

"Come on John. Oh, and don't fret Miss. Vitarelli, we'll keep your business to ourselves."

...

**Sparks fly! A bit..**

**Anyway, this is the spark that sets ****the tinder alight.  
****Thank you all for reading this far. MUCH LOVE!**


	4. Damage Control

They looked at her, expressions like drowning men. Panic shone from every face but Claire managed a disinterested smile.

"Gentlemen." She said resolutely. "These things happen."

The chairs of both the Chairman and Senior Vice President were empty; their owners incarcerated. The Vice Chairman was beyond incompetent and sat staring dejectedly out the window. Claire stood and began walking the length of the boardroom.

"Under any other circumstances we would stand firm by our leaders... but the government is talking about terrorism, and they have evidence. The men missing from this room today are permanently severed from this corporation. We have officially withdrawn the hand of friendship, and if the rest of you value your jobs and, I don't mean to be indelicate... you lives, you will sever any ties you have with them personally. This world of corporations is a dangerous one, but the reality is" And her eyes shone with their full force as she stared down the board room. "Those that have fallen will stay fallen, and we will _come_out of this."

"Not untarnished!" The President interjected, genuinely disgusted by the dealings of his former colleagues.

"True." Claire said, smiling. "But without the occasional challenge, we'd get bored. Press and Public Relations teams are scrambling about downstairs with my personal notes and instructions. George, you have an interview Sunday..."

"Right." The Executive Director coughed. "I'm on with the Americans and then BBC is Tuesday. We're denouncing them as villains." There was uncomfortable shuffling.

"Good." Claire said firmly and the eyes of the men returned to her attractive, reassuring face. "Following this, we will have a vote next thursday to rearrange the names on the lobby plaque."

"Which do you want?" The Vice Chairman interjected pointedly. The other boardmembers looked on him with disgust.

"I'm perfectly happy with my title Lawrence, thank you."

The title Executive wasn't used very often in British companies, and she was paid as much as the Senior Vice President had been so her response was an honest one. Lawrence would be without a job next week.

"Miss Vitarelli?" a man whose name she did not know asked angrily. "How do we come back? Terrorism, I mean... our stock has fallen 7 percent."

"We come back one step at a time." She sat back in her chair and smiled warmly. The confidence in this woman who barely came as high as any of their shoulders was absolute. "We have lost none of our competency or edge. This is passing. The guilty men will be hanged, figuratively, and we will keep on as though they were dead weight that we are happy to have lost - because at this point, that is the reality."

"Bu-"

"No buts, and no more questions please. Everything is being taken care of. The monday after next, I am sure, will be like any other monday... We just have to get through this next week. We hold firm and stick to our guns, because that's how we win. And gentleman," she said for emphasis. "We will win."

And they believed her. She had never failed them, and if she had thought their cause a losing one, she would have told them expressly. Many a sigh of relief were heard around the table.

"Thank you Claire." The ED smiled. "Now, whose report did I read about Shillings?" And the meeting continued.

Claire sat in her chair and let the voices around her fade into the background. A month had passed since her meeting with the consulting detective, and a shit storm had followed. He had kept his word though, and her name was never mentioned. She remained untarnished in the eyes of all but the consulting detective's and his blonde friend.

Her unwavering smile had faltered, and she glared down at the city below.

"What?" The man next to her asked in alarm, and the focus of the room returned to her. She gave him a look that brought sweat to his temples and waved away the attention of the board.

"If I hear or see any of you with even a hint of uncertainty I'll find a folding chair and personally bash in your skulls." Claire said dangerously, and the Executive Director laughed.

"Claire's right. Now Johnson look away before your eyes melt." The board relaxed at this, remembering Claire's temper and knowing it wasn't personal. " Now what we need is-"

And she went back to ignoring them all. The more she thought about her detective, the more she admired what he had done and found herself bitter at having lost a worthy adversary. He had been right about everything, and she hated being wrong. The whole situation left her bitter, but she knew she was being ridiculous.

Drumming her fingers on the table, she sighed and looked away from the city below and turned her eyes to the sky. Breathing, she let any pent-up animosity for the detective evaporate.

"Sherlock Holmes I think." The words gave her whiplash as she snapped her neck to search for their owner. It was the President and he was looking over a file. "So if he can have a chat with each of us, when the meeting is over, that would be good."

"I'm sorry, why Jack?" Claire managed, checking her composure. He glanced up at her.

"He reads people. Some kind of detective. I want everyone connected or in the know about this whole mess **out**. Gone, done, finished." Claire nodded, looking about.

_"How many would he get?"_

She waved the question away and listened to the rest of the meeting with strained ears.

"And that's it." George was saying. He rubbed his face and pressed the buzzer in front of him. "Alright Matilda, what does he want? One at a time or-" But the detective had entered the room before he could finish.

"Good afternoon gentleman." He was saying, removing his scarf. John was at his side looking at Claire. "I think this will do." He sat at the head of the table in the Chairman's massive leather armchair. "Right." And he fell to examining them. His eyes passed over Claire without incident.

"Er, Mr. Holmes?" George managed after a few minutes.

"Mr. Executive Director, there are two men at this table I recommend you dismiss immediately. The man in the cornflower blue tie and the man in the brown suit. There could be - " He fell to explaining their explicit involvement with the terrorist scandal. Claire watched as the men shouted; things were thrown, another man was dragged down into the melee, and security was called. Three men had fallen under Sherlock, and the Executive Director was shaking his hand warmly.

"Well done, Mr. Holmes, well done!"

"Yes. Now if I can have a word with your Executive please?" Every head snapped to look at Claire.

"Er - I can assure you that Miss. Vitarelli -"

"Nothing like that. Miss. Vitarelli was quite unaware of any terrorist connection or dealing." The board took a collective deep breath, having been for an instant startled that their guardian angel might be about to fall. "I think a word with her concerning damage control would be most conducive."

"Of course." George was saying. "Claire?" He looked at her, seeking confirmation.

"Yes." Claire said standing. "Over lunch, detective?"

"That would be ideal, yes."

"Right." Claire said grabbing up her coat. "Good afternoon gentleman." She said walking out, John and Sherlock behind her.

Claire surpressed a smile.

**...**

**"it's a dangerous business, going out your door... and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you'll be swept off to." **


	5. Histories

**It is here that we proceed to slip further down the rabbit hole..**

**& DEAR READERS - your feedback is always quality motivation.  
****In the meantime, thanks for reading :***

**...**

She sipped her tea and looked over the porcelain cup at the two men on the other side of the table. While Watson helped himself to a large italian sub, Sherlock seemed content with a glass of water.

"You're not hungry?" Claire finally asked, glancing down at her bisque.

"I never eat during a case." Sherlock said dismissively. Claire nodded and stirred her lunch delicately.

"What's your case?" She asked hesitantly.

"A murder. Rather straightforward. Or at least it was until another body was found atop St. Paul's."

"Another?" Claire asked, startled.

"We were originally looking into the case surrounding the first body. It found last week and now, yesterday, they found another one. A serial murderer..." He trailed off, looking out the window excitedly. Claire lifted an eyebrow.

"Er... so. This lunch, I thought, was to discuss my co-"

"No, actually it isn't. This lunch has nothing to do with that. We actually have a question regarding one John Edeson."

Claire froze and her eyes flashed between the detective and his friend.

"What's he done?"

"Miss. Vitar- Claire." He corrected himself. "We are asking you the questions today."

"Excuse me?"

"What do you know about him?" Sherlock continued, ignoring her. Claire removed her napkin from her lap and proceeded to fold it.

"I won't be badgered by you two about my colleagues."

"He's at a rival company." John offered.

"That's not really the point." She sniffed. At this, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"There's been some fraudulent behavior at White&Morgan. We know you know Edeson."

"Of course I know him. He's _their_ fixer."

"What, do you fixer's have an association?" John asked smiling.

"John, do shut up. Claire," Sherlock leaned across the table. "There's been a kidnapping and unless this is all sorted out a small child will most certainly die."

"What? Why, what happened?"

"Your colleague has embezzled millions from his employer, and when threatened by the law he took the CEO's daughter hostage. We need to know every-"

"Right." Claire said firmly. "Right. John is good. He's really good and well connected in ways you couldn't begin to imagine. There are a few estates in Africa he owns," She began writing on her napkin. "I know he keeps his money somewhere in Rio. There's a bank.. _Gonçalves_. And I know for a fact he has family in Bern. Like a sister, I think." She finished writing and handed the napkin to Sherlock.

"Marvelous. Anything else?" He pocketed the information after glancing at it briefly.

"You'll have to threaten him. I only say that because it's the only thing that will work really. He's bipolar."

"What's that you said?" John interjected.

"Yes. He's bipolar 1 so he's usually riding the manic wave... when it gets bad his secretary checks him, but he must have fallen into some deep waters."

"He's not medicated?"

"No." Claire said, glancing away from their harsh gazes.

"How is that allowed?" John demanded.

"He's good. Really good.." Claire trailed off tapping her fingers on the edge of the white clothed table. Her gaze flashed back to them.

"So... How do we find him?" John asked.

"You'll have to threaten him. Use his sister as bait. She'll play along. I've met her. She hates what he does and I know she worries..."

"Well it is a rather shady business." Sherlock said cooly. Claire looked at him for a long moment.

"You don't approve of what I do."

"Covering up murders, affairs, hit-and-runs, theft? No I do not."

"I clean up the messes and, unless the CEO is at the center of a scandal, the guilty parties are thrown out with the trash."

"You sweep the filth under the rug so your corporations can run with clean -"

"Yes!" She hissed. "Yes! I do! And you know what? Every company does it. I'm good at my job. I'm the best... It's just business."

"Yeah." John said returning to his sandwich. "That _is_ business Sherlock."

"I suppose it is."

The detective appraised the woman across from him. She was very beautiful even though the vein in her temple was pulsing as her eyes shone with the same annoyance. Her set jaw allowed her lips to pout even more than they usually did, and the consulting detective found his gaze lingering on the prominent collar bones beneath her pale-blue silk shirt.

"Mr. Holmes." Claire said quietly. "I thank you for your sanction. Is there anything else? My lunch hour was over twenty minutes ago."

"It doesn't seem like you're held to the same rules as the others back at your - "

"No." She interrupted John. "No, but I do like to be punctual. It's only polite and I have alot of things to do..."

"You haven't been sleeping." Sherlock said quietly, disregarding her attempt to dismiss herself from their company.

"No." Claire quipped. John wiped his mouth,

"Why not? The pressure to fix the whole terrorism mess? That's alot to carry. Judging by that boardroom, you're the one steering the foundering ship. I think you've done well. The press is vilifying the men, not your company... The product of your work, no doubt."

"Yes... thanks John. It is a rather difficult situation but we'll come out alright. And we learn from our battle wounds, so we'll come out even stronger. I'm-"

"But that isn't why you're having trouble sleeping." Sherlock interrupted. "Your work is enjoyable. Stressful, perhaps... But you enjoy that. No, you're not sleeping because you have yet to reconcile yourself with the death of your cousin."

There was silence. Sherlock stared at Claire who looked to John who glared at his friend.

"Sherlock -" John began.

"Why?" The detective implored, ignoring his friend. "It's been how many weeks..."

"You're right." Claire said in a soft voice; very uncharacteristic of her. John's eyes flicked to her.

Her fierce inner light seemed to have dimmed, and the good doctor felt an overwhelming urge to take her hand in his and comfort her.

"You're absolutely right, Mr. Holmes. I miss her." She met his gaze with vacant eyes. "Is that all or can I go?"

"I know I'm right, my question is why? It's been 7 weeks." Claire winced.

"Yes. It's been seven weeks since my cousin came to visit me in London and kill herself... and you're wondering why I'm still affected by that?"

"Yes."

"Unbelievable." Claire whispered, eyes shining like black fire.

"Sherlock -"

"John, she hasn't been sleeping. There's been a funeral. I'm beginning to question this fixer's ability to cope."

"My therapist says I can't cope for shit." Claire said flatly, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair.

"You see a therapist?" John asked.

"Of course she does." Sherlock said flippantly. "Not just for her dead cousin, mind. Look at her forearm. Faint traces of scars. What was that you said before, battle wounds? ... Very delicate. I'd say twice?"

"That's right." Claire said, smiling faintly, darkly.

"Twice what?" John asked, completely at a loss.

"She's had two breakdowns... years ago. Both when she was 18 I think. Typical for her condition."

"Condition?" Claire mused.

"Panic Disorder. Before it was diagnosed she made two attempts on her life... both within 6 months of each other."

"You think so?" She mused.

"I know so. The scars are light, almost invisible. Non-life threatening, but you had no other outlet while you waited for the bottles of pills you had swallowed to stop your heart."

There was a long stretch of silence that was actually excruciating for John.

"Impressive." Claire finally whispered, eyes shining with an unfathomable light. The detective pressed on, surpressing an understanding enthusiasm

"But while you should have died, you lived. Twice. You knew what medications and dosages would kill you, but twice you survived what should have been certain death. These experiences gave you the idea that you were invincible... so with that idea in your head you went through life _conquering_."

"Did I?"

"Of course. But now, after nearly a decade of self control and positive results... It's all coming back to you isn't is?"

"Sherlock, stop it." John said harshly.

"The uncontrollable fear, the slight tremor in your hands... muscle aches, insomnia, headaches? Yes. And your complexion is dewy. Very attractive, but perspiration nevertheless."

"Very good." Her voice was dangerously low.

"The fact that you still function at the level you do is remarkable really. The bottle in your purse shows you've gone back to taking anti-anxiety medication - "

"It's really the only thing keeping me from jumping out my office window these days."

Both men froze at these stark words.

While John had been alarmed from the beginning, Sherlock had been enjoying his deduction of a would-be adversary. Claire's expression was open, revealing cool indifference to the truth she had just revealed.

"Claire," John managed after a moment. "You don't really mean that. Sherlock's an arse but-"

"She means it John."

"Shut up Sherlock." John hissed.

"Thank you for lunch." Claire said standing, laying several notes of tenure on the table. "Good afternoon."  
And then she was gone.

John turned to Sherlock, angry.  
"Why the hell did you do that?" the detective shifted in his chair, uncomfortable.

"It was all truth. Didn't you see the bottle?"

"No, I didn't actually. I wasn't looking in her purse. And her grief is understandable. Why did you have to provoke her? This is not the time. And if she's really struggling with suicidal ideation..."

"She won't be jumping out of any windows John." The detective said, standing.

"And you're sure of that?"


	6. Spark of Intrigue

Sherlock Holmes stared down at the people milling about Baker St.

"How about that file Lestrade sent over, hmm?" John asked from over his newspaper. His eyes narrowed on his friend whose face was rife with an emotion rarely seen on it's angular planes. "What is it Sherlock?"

"There's a letter there, on the mantle."

John stood and picked up the only envelope on the mantle. It was on heavy stationary and the words were beautifully written by a fountain pen in royal-blue ink;

_Mr. Holmes,_

_Thank you for your deductions._  
_Criminals are now behind bars_  
_and the body of my cousin was_  
_found last wednesday as a result._  
_I should apologize for my initial_  
_cool behavior toward you that_  
_manifested as violent thoughts_  
_regarding your person... I laugh_  
_writing this, of course. You are_  
_obviously an exceptional detective,_  
_but you don't need me to tell you_  
_that. I've always said that arrogance_  
_has to be earned- and you've earned_  
_yours better than anyone I've ever_  
_encountered. So congratulations..._  
_As for our last meeting, I would_  
_appreciate you keeping the details_  
_to yourself._

_All the best,_  
_Claire Vitarelli_

John set the letter back on the mantle.

"Well that was nice of her." He said returning to his chair. Sherlock was pacing

"It was uncharacteristic of her... Why?" Watson raised his eyebrows.

"Um, maybe because she meant it and... if you really want ulterior motives, maybe it was so you'd keep her secret. I'm sure no one knows she has those pills. And I'm positive no one knows about her past."

"True." Sherlock said picking up his violin. "But did you see the other note slipped in?"

John, who had not seen the other note, stood up and rooted through the papers on top of the fireplace. Finally he found a small card with the words

_p.s.; you missed a most important  
__detail mr. holmes. though i cannot say  
__expressly here, but there was a reason  
__for both my scars and Zena's death...  
__unfortunately these cryptic lines are  
__dangerous. however, you've confronted  
__the __same demon as i have mr. holmes.  
__but if you're as good as i believe you  
__to be, you will decipher this message  
__without too much difficulty. - ep_

"I don't understand. EP? Why'd she sign it that way?" John checked the back of the card but there was nothing else.

"It's her real name." The consulting detective said, brow furrowed as he though.

"Which is what? EP?"

"I don't know." Sherlock plucked a string of his violin.

"Well is she who she says she is?"

"Yes. She's grew up in a small town in illinois, she came from that powerful family, she went to college in Chicago and was on Wall Street before she came here. Apart from the name, she's the person we know. But we _missed_ something."

"Yeah, like why did she change her name? And if she did change her name then why are there records of-"

"Obviously her family could have records altered." Sherlock was pacing. "The detail we missed.. something drove her to madness and what ever it was, she's implying that it led her cousin to jump."

"She said you confronted the same demon? You think she means drugs?"

"No. That wouldn't be too dangerous to put in a letter, would it? No, the demon must be a person. But _who_?"

"Well your list of personal enemies is extensive... but it's got to be a big one if they're getting to Claire too."

"Yes. Someone international. She said they were the cause of her scars, and that was nearly ten years ago in America."

"Moriarty?" John offered. Sherlock's head snapped around and he stared at his friend, eyes wide.

"That would be unfortunate."

"Well, it would make sense. He's mad and works on the international level. But why would he - Oh." John stopped as something clicked in his head.

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"Her family is powerful in America, and their influence is vast. He might have targeted her for that reason."

"Of course... But her cousin? It's a puzzle." Sherlock mused.

"Yes, so why don't you look more excited? Puzzles like this usually get you off."

"John, I like the idea of Moriarty more than Moriarty in practice. Especially if he's driving young women to madness."

"Yeah..." John trailed off, brow knit with concern. "Maybe that's why she came to London, to get away."

"Perhaps."

"But if she's away from her powerful family, why would Moriarty target her again?"

"Moriarty likes games, and she's beaten him. Twice. "

"Beaten him? She tried to off herself!"

"And she's still alive John! That's what Moriarty would consider a loss. Anyway, whatever his original intentions were, they probably don't matter any more. It's all just a game."

The two friends sat in their living room, silent.

"There's more to it than her powerful family John." Sherlock said after a time. "And after all this time? It's more than a game... We've left something out."

"What are you thinking?"

"Moriarty is a man. Do you see?" Sherlock's gaze transferred his emotions so strongly John gripped the arms of his chair.

"No!" he insisted. "That's wrong."

"Hence, the pills." Sherlock said darkly.


	7. The Truth is Elusive

**Can you keep up with the twisted reality that  
life allows its participants to become entwined in?**

**...**

Claire sat on the park bench and watched the people hurrying through the rain. She smiled slightly, enjoying the cool mist and large drops crashing against her. The air was washed clean and as she breathed she felt peaceful. She was debating whether or not to close her eyes when a man sat next to her.

"Vitarelli." He said.

Claire had been expecting this. With an inaudible sigh she held still as the dirty man took her hand and placed an envelope in it. He stood and she was alone once more.  
Glancing down at the yellowed paper, Claire broke the seal and unfolded the letter,

_A park my dear, really?_  
_Can't we be a __**bit**__ more_  
_adventuresome? Here's_  
_an idea; why don't you_  
_come see me? _ **E **-  
_I look for you always._  
_I know you E. I know you._  
_Who else?__ Come to me._

Claire stared at the words for a very long time.

Finally, she let the paper fall from her hands and watched as the rain washed the ink from the pulp.

"E?" A welcome voice, reading over her shoulder. She did not turn, but was glad when Sherlock sat beside her.

"Mr. Holmes, are you following me?" She would have smiled but she had no energy.

"Who was that letter form?" Her eyes moved to meet his and she noted his gaze was intense, but that didn't quite register. The rain was gentle.

"It doesn't concern you, Mr. Holmes."

"Perhaps it should. Was it Moriarty?" He demanded.

Claire shot to her feet and stared down at Sherlock with wide eyes.

"What?"

"The note you sent. I've deduced -"

"Wrong again." Claire said dismissively. Sherlock stared at her for a moment.

"I don't understand."

At this, Claire groaned and sank back to the bench.

"What is it? Are you being threatened?"

"It _really_ doesn't concern you." Was her muffled response. She was clutching her face in her hands.

"You can tell me." Sherlock sat down beside her again. "I can help."

"I can't." She finally whispered. As she turned her face to look up at him, he saw tears like diamonds pooling in her dark eyes. "You shouldn't be here."

"Who is this that has you frightened? Tell me?"

Claire looked around the park and back to Sherlock. She was trembling, and the detective felt a wave of rage sweep through him toward whoever was the source of Claire's distress.

"I'm not frightened. It's just frustration. And it _isn't_ Moriarty." She said finally.

"But... Moriarty. Do you know him?"

"Yes." She said dismissively.

Sherlock's mouth opened slightly. "But - "

Claire threw him a patronizing look, hair hanging like a dark curtain about her face as the rain fell.  
"But? But what?"

"How do you know him?" Sherlock asked, frustrated by his inability to grasp the intricacies of the woman beside him.

"Sherlock." Claire said closing her eyes and leaning back. "My profession requires me to deal with people like Moriarty on a daily basis."

"Alright." Sherlock said, filing that away. "You deal with criminal psychopaths as part of your job. Alright. But that _note_. You said that you and I have faced the same demon?"

"Yes." She wiped a glistening tear from her eye that fell and combined with the countless rain drops dappling her flushed cheeks. Claire glanced at him. "I thought it was obvious. Was I wrong?"

"Were you wrong about what?"

Claire looked suddenly very embarrassed and averted her eyes.  
"You - I mean - Damn." She was struggling. Sherlock waited patiently. "drugs." she murmured.

"Ah. Yes I am a 7% man. That required a cryptic note?"

"You thought I was being clever? No. I could **never** have any written confession of cocaine use... I'd lose everything if anyone found that in my handwriting."

Sherlock sat staring at her.  
"You seem fine. High functioning... I don't see any damage."

"Well there hasn't been. I only use the best and - no wait! This..." She trailed off feeling very confused. "It's all irrelevant."

"Ah! I see it all now." He interrupted, overwhelmed to display his skills of deduction. Standing he began to pace in front of her.

"Your mother died a violent death when you were very young and though your father loved you there was not very much affection in your home. You were extremely intelligent and school did nothing to stimulate your mind. Receiving perfect grades in advanced courses was easy. To be brilliant when everyone around you is painfully ignorant an-" He stopped and looked at her.

She was watching him, eyes shining with some emotion Sherlock couldn't quite place. He continued.

"You had friends. You played the game, as you say. You _won_ the game. But as for true human connection, how could you ever achieve that when your companions were thoroughly ordinary? Drugs were a reprieve. Suicide was the only thing you ever failed at... But then you went to university and obtained two professional degrees. Things were looking up on Wall Street. But you met someone there. You shared an apartment in New York with Zena, your cousin... and -"

"Getting it now? Piecing it together rather nicely?"

"Your cousin was unemployed... You were earning an impressive six figure salary. She enjoyed to party and you were _thoroughly _bored. So why not? Cocaine. And whoever sent you that letter knew you then, and he's found you now."

"That's pretty much the situation, yeah."

"Cocaine on top of a panic disorder... Interesting. Zena obviously spiraled... But why did you change your name? And that _letter_?" Sherlock went quiet, waiting, thinking while staring at the ruined paper at their feet.

Claire cleared her throat and offered,  
"Claire's been my name since I was four. I was named for my mother, but after she was murdered in front of me, my dad thought I might need a different name. E stands for Elanor and P stands for Pruie, my middle name. So EP."

Sherlock realized his original deduction that her mother was still living had been wrong, which only added to the disappointment he felt now about having come to wrongly question Claire about Moriaty...

"Alright." He said, collecting his thoughts. "Now e_xplain_ the letter."

Claire looked down to see the ink swirling over the ruined pulp it had been soaked into only moments ago.

"It was a threat of sorts."

"Do elaborate." Sherlock commanded darkly. Claire met his glare and smiled delicately, eyes concealing something Sherlock couldn't quite place.

"That..." she gestured to the letter at her feet. "He knew me from my New York days. He lives in Prague now but it seems he's keen on bringing me to my knees..." She said trailing off and looking up the the gray heavens above her.

Sherlock stared at her. She wasn't giving him much to work with.  
"Is that all? Nothing else you care to share?"

She looked at him and her expression was dreamy.

"To be honest... no. I figure whatever comes, I deserve." Sherlock frowned at this.

"Deserve? Elanor, what do you think is coming?"

Claire cringed at hearing her real name.  
"I don't feel like thinking about that just now."

Sherlock swore outright, and Claire observed this cooly.  
"Puzzled?"

"What about your cousin?" Sherlock persisted.

"She was major depressive."

"You -" He started. "But - why did you come to me if the answer was obvious? And that officer? I don't understand."

"I'm only human Mr. Holmes. I wanted her alive. And... Haven't you ever heard of _denial_?"

The consulting detective stared at the woman beside him, unsure what to think; totally at a loss. This was something he had never experienced before.

"Fine. And the letter?" He managed, glancing to the wet pavement.

"Courtesy of one Charles Augustus Milverton."

"Ah."

Claire's eyes snapped to his, suddenly alarmed. "You know him?"

"He's notorious for blackmail. MP's, ambassadors, the aristocracy... Why's he blackmailing you? You're wealthy, but so's he. What could he gain from this?"

Claire just fell to laughing, looking relieved.

"Mr. Holmes, you are an enigma."

"Me?" Sherlock exclaimed. "You're the one running about in the rain, sending and receiving cryptic letters, abusing drugs, engaging in shady business ventures ... and all the while rubbing shoulders with world leaders. I -" He stopped. Claire was smiling smugly.

"Bit of a mystery, am I Mr. Holmes?"

"A Paradox, perhaps." He sniffed.

At this, Claire laughed. "Well, I wouldn't want to be _obvious _or anything."

"Obviouss is ordinary." Sherlock agreed. "But really Miss. Vitarelli, what does Milverton want from you?" Claire looked away.

"A lot." She said coldly. There was a long silence.

"Mr. Holmes," she continued. "the letter I sent was to thank you. I mentioned the demon we shared out of a sense of camaraderie. I thought it was rather straightforward _(here Sherlock cringed, thinking back to John's suggestion of drugs being their demon)_ but," Claire continued. " Your mind, I see now, only searches for puzzles. Obvious _is_ boring... I'm sorry the truth turned out to be mundane, in the end."

"On the contrary," Sherlock half smiled. "Our conversation has been anything but boring."

At this, Claire grinned up at him.

"So," Sherlock mused. "Milverton?"

"Well." Claire said, eyes flashing as she looked away once more. "I do _try_ to be good. Either way, I'm sure I can handle the situation."

"Pride comes before the fall." Sherlock said, gazing off in the same direction as Claire.

They sat together a while.

"I think I can take care of myself, but thank you Sherlock." She said after a moment, flashing a charming smile.

The detective felt a warm glow at hearing her say his first name. Claire stood and still smiling bade him farewell.  
Sherlock Holmes remained sitting. The air was fresh and the rain had let up enough that it was pleasant. Suddenly, his whirring mind came to a crashing halt.

Charles Augustus Milverton had been shot to death in his home seven years ago.

**...**

**Thank You SOOOOO much for making it this far :)**

**Don't think it's as simple as she's letting on...  
I promise you more mystery and intrigue that's even less obvious than the above chapter introduced.  
As always, REVIEWs are appreciated.**

**Oh, and much love your way! You guys are fantastic for sharing this story with me and it's just great. Peace :***


	8. We're All Mad Here

**Did I mention this story takes place just after The Hounds of Baskerville episode? ... because it does.**

* * *

"Oh darling _why_?" Jim Moriarty crooned, lounging on Claire's cremé divan. Her office was dim, the only source of light emanating from a Tiffany desk lamp. Claire leaned back in her plush leather arm chair and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply.

"Long day."

"They'll kill you, those will."

Claire watched as the criminal mastermind across the room flipped through her favorite book.

"That's my first edition of Wuthering Heights. Put it down." She ordered.

Moriarty let the book fall on the coffee table behind him with a sigh of exasperation.

"You and your books." He lept up from the plush couch and stalked about the large, highceilinged office. "I saw you today, in the park."

As she exhaled a stream of white smoke, she contemplated informing Moriarty of the letter she had received. She waved the idea away, resigned to the fact that the sender was her own personal responsibility. There was no need to involve a third party.

"And?" She asked, annoyed. He spun on his heel, hands in pockets.

"Fraternizing with the enemy... naughty Claire." He purred and hopped up to sit on her desk. She was relieved he hadn't seen the letter handoff.

"Jim, he's not _my_ enemy. He's yours."

"Yes, yes! I know." Moriarty scoffed. "There you are doing that thing again... Like Switzerland but worse. I don't know get it. You're so _diplomatic_. It's repulsive."

Claire was of the opinion that people should be left to act freely, in secrecy should they wish it, according to their own personal inclinations.

"Well the door's just over there, if I repulse you so much." She said smiling.

Moriarty placed a slender hand on her cheek,

"Now now. You are my favorite thing Claire, I forgive you all your faults."

Rolling her eyes, Claire ignored his "pet name", used to being termed 'thing'. People were objects to Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes being the one possible exception.

"Sherlock Holmes..." She mused aloud. "What's repulsive to me is your obsession with him."

"Disapproval? Claire, _please_. I have things to do, plans already set in motion, and your "friend" keeps interfering. I mean come on, a _sociopath_? If he was more like me.. I might entertain his person a while longer, but he's on the wrong side."

"The wrong side of what?"

Moriarty smiled whimsically and Claire crushed her cigarette in a crystal ash tray.

"Would you tell me something?" She continued. "You admire this man enough to respect him... so, by your logic, he has to be killed?"

"Yes."

"But why? Misery loves company. Isn't it the same with genius? I mean, look how entertained you are. Right now! If you kill Holmes, how will you spend your afternoons?"

"Claire" Moriarty sighed. "Genius does love company. But having met this man, I know that only one of us can occupy the same plane of existence. We are two opposing forces, very nearly matched, I will admit, in our age old dichotomy... Can you understand that?"

Claire understood that the man in the fitted gray suit staring intently at her was completely insane. She just smiled.

Claire possessed the unusual talent of being impartial to people of any mentality so long as they did not personally offend her. Perhaps had Claire known the full extent of Moriarty's viciousness she would have avoided him...

However, because Moriarty adhered to her rules of morality when doing business with her, Claire did not pay _much_ attention to the other sins of the consulting criminal. That's just smart business.

Also, her rationalization was; that if there were no criminals, there would be no heroes...  
But perhaps she had some mental condition after all, panic disorder aside.

"I understand _you_, yes."

Moriarty fell to her feet and grabbed ahold of her legs.

"Claire I swear, if I were capable of human affection I would love you."  
Then he was standing in a flash.  
"However, we psychopaths have a difficult time with the whole sentiment thing so," he patted her head. Claire just laughed.

"You're interesting to have around, I cant deny it."

"I'd be more interesting and _fun even _if you would let me tell you of my adventures."

Claire crossed her arms.  
She would engage Moriarty in conversation, but she refused him whenever he tried to brag about his crimes. Moriarty threw up his hands in surrender

"FINE! You're lucky I find you tolerable."

"I think I am. But why do you suppose that is?" Claire asked, genuinely curious. A true psychopath was incontestably fascinating.

"You're what a woman should be. You keep the secrets of your friends, and I think you dismiss convention is a very elegant way. Clever, brave, kind, ambitious, loyal, _warm _Claire." He placed a hand on her shoulder, allowing his fingers to brush her collar bone. "I think I'm supposed to be in love with you." His brow knit in confusion.

Claire let him alone with his thoughts for a moment before gently removing his hand. Moriarty's eyes met hers and he looked thoroughly confused.

"I wouldn't worry too much about that right now Jim." Claire said quietly. "How about you tell me about the oil fields?"

Moriarty's face lit up. Claire was inviting him to break the one rule she had placed on their relationship.

"They, and when I say 'they', I mean our favorite band of Northern ruffians, have been stashing bodies on the rig. TY7832. Seventeen so far. The captain's gone round the bend and the company is in a panic. Mcclelan and I met last month and he -"

Claire listened patiently.  
Her thoughts strayed to Sherlock Holmes and she wondered whether or not she could persuade Moriarty to let the detective alone. As he spoke of murder, corpses, fabricated evidence, pending assassinations and vast fortunes to be obtained, she knew there was nothing that she could do or say to put Moriarty off his plans.

For a fleeting instant she entertained the possibility of warning Sherlock of Moriarty's lust for his blood, but realized that her life would end more gruesomely than any of the horrific slaughters Moriarty was animatedly describing to her. Claire also realized that her warning would more than likely fall on deaf ears, and have no affect on the consulting detective.

"Lovely." She quipped when Moriarty had finished, and he laughed.

"Yes, yes, alright. Now let's get to _your_ business my pet." He drew a file from his portmanteau. Setting it carefully on her desk, Moriarty smiled at her expectantly.

Claire read over the pages quickly and handed the file back to him.

"You're sure?" She asked, but it wasn't really a question.

"Oh yes. A holiday in Rome, three dead bodies. Elliot Worthington has been a _very_ bad boy."

Claire frowned.

"Well don't touch him." She said firmly, looking up at the consulting criminal. His expression was dark and his eyes were lit by a dangerous fire.

"He's tarnished your corporation's good name. A high ranking - if the press... Claire." He covered his face with his hands. "Claire you never let me do anything _fun_. I could make this filth disappear and _save you_ a massive headache. That is my profession, after all."

"I feel like we've had a few conversations similar to this before my dear." Claire said, almost smiling. Her predecessor at the firm had allowed Moriarty to clean up messes in any way that he desired. Claire was very different, and their first few transactions had been rocky, but she needed the best and Moriarty _was_ the best.

A man is what a man is, but Moriarty, being a psychopath, had done a magnificent job of stifling his blood lust when it came to Claire's business associates.

"Fine." He dropped his hands and rolled his eyes, walking back around her desk. "Is that it?"

"Yeah unless you want to, I don't know, go volunteer at the Red Cross for a couple hours? That's kind of your thing isn't it?"

They both smiled, Moriarty in an highly unsettling way.

_Nothing unusual there._

"You know," Moriarty said finally as she pushed a large envelope across her desk to him; but he only waved it away. "Though incapable of love, I am fond of you."

Then he turned and was gone. Claire just shook her head.

She was left staring at the envelope on her desk. Claire picked it up and set it carefully in her desk drawer. Spinning her chair around, Claire gazed out at the sprawling metropolis of London, lights blazing against the darkness of the late hour.

It was nice to have Moriarty as an... ally? She wasn't sure what he was exactly.  
It was also nice to have shared a park bench with Sherlock Holmes that afternoon...

_It's a mad world._

The words from the letter flashed before her eyes; **_I know you.  
_**Claire packed another cigarette, and as the flame illuminated her dark eyes she frowned, Sherlock's warning thundering through her head; **_Pride comes before the fall._**

She blinked and leaned back in her chair, contemplating her dilemma.

Sherlock or Moriarty could make **it** go away...

But she'd never allow that. Yes, she was proud, but that wasn't the reason she was opting to handle the situation herself. Some things are too personal to involve others in. Some things are too delicate.

Claire felt suddenly terrible alone, and a thrill of panic shot up her spine. She took a long drag on her cigarette and stood up, still staring at the city below.

_I deserve whatever's coming._

Looking down at her hands, Claire could feel the blood. Warm and wet.


End file.
